


Hark, Hark! The Dogs Do Bark

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Twitter Fic [22]
Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: Adam Driver/Domhnall Gleeson Character Combinations, Anal Play, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Phone Sex, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Puppy Play, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22447009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: He flicks the blade open and makes quick work of each package, the little circular tabs of adhesive cutting cleanly. The actual boxes are harder, the smooth surfaces turning the lids into a vacuum seal. He finally shakes one furiously until the two sides slide apart."Well, fuck," he mutters, the most unassuming of the boxes falling open. He picks the phone back up and flicks the screen with his thumb. "You weren't joking."You said you were a good boy.
Relationships: Clyde Logan/Unspecified Partner
Series: Twitter Fic [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1115475
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	Hark, Hark! The Dogs Do Bark

**Author's Note:**

> Blame hedge and yd, honestly. They know what they've done. And pocky for good measure.
> 
> Clyde's partner in this is unnamed. I have a few ideas as to whom I imagined is on the other end of the phone call, but I thought that really, the aim was just to write Clyde in some cute ears and a tail. Does his partner really need to be named? 
> 
> So, gentle reader, I leave that up to you -- imagine whomever the hell you want. I'd be very entertained to hear who everyone picks in the comments.
> 
> Is it good writing? Absolutely not. Was it stupidly fun? Absolutely yes. Enjoy this bit of utter fuckery.

_**Plink!**_  
  
Clyde ignores the notification. He swipes at the screen and pushes it further along the counter beneath the bar. Mellie is far too interested in it. Who else sends him text messages but her and Jimmy? She crinkles her nose at him, displeased with his implicit secrecy.  
  
 _ **Plink!**_

He pulls another pint and passes it over. With a look Clyde knows means that he'll be interrogated in some affectionate -- if hostile manner -- later, Mellie takes it and squeezes through the crowd with her arm-full of glasses. It's the same look she's always given him. Years ago, it would have been followed by a tussle but Mellie's too dignified for that now. And it's too easy to use his weight against her anyway, ain't a fair fight.  
  
The Saturday night regulars will keep him busy until closing. He can make drinks nearly as people walk through the door, knows who follows what with which. It's an almost zen-like process, or as close to whatever that state is that Clyde has ever gotten.  
  
 _ **Plink!**_  
  
He's not busy enough, though, to forget about the regular messages coming through. He can't quite measure time by them. _Quite_. It's not the messages that make him feel warm and nervous, it really isn't. Not the content or the sender. It's more what he knows is waiting at home _because_ of the messages. He's known it was all on the way but hadn't know when it would arrive. He was a fool to agree, he knows, but he's been doing foolhardy things since the Coca-Cola 600. This might top the list.  
  
 _ **Plink!**_  
  
He finally turns the phone over so he doesn't have to keep watching the number of notifications climb. He can see the clock over the kitchen door just fine, doens't need the screen visible. He just needs to keep track of last call. He glances up at the clock then, the hazy glow of the neon frame around the beer-ad time face an utter disappointment. Two in the morning is entirely too far away.  
  
 _ **Plink!**_  
  
Just before one the door opens on Spud. The man is shaped like his name suggests and stays that way no matter how many miles around town he hikes on his route every day. He bellies up to the bar and shakes Clyde's hand, passing across some cash for Clyde and asking him to add the night's drinks to his tab. He laughs with the other old timers at the counter while Clyde works through the queue of orders before his.

"Clyde!" he finally says as he pulls his glass toward himself. "Dropped off a big box for you today. I went 'round behind the trailer to leave it. Them Williams kids have been stealin' parcels all over town."  
  
 _ **Plink!**_  
  
"Ah, thanks, Spud." Clyde hopes that the sweat he can feel on his scalp and the heat he can feel on his face aren't too noticeable. "Hope it wasn't too much trouble."  
  
Spud insists it wasn't and Clyde tells himself that it's impossible that Spud _knows_. Impossible. It's not as if everything's been sent in a clear bin or shrink-wrapped down to shape. His imagination won't let him let go of the notion though. He can clearly picture it in the back of Spud's mail truck, everything inside the bin bouncing around on the uneven road. He envisions Spud dragging it out and hefting it up on his hip and marching through the little cul-de-sac of converted mobile homes and through the narrow strip of grass between neighbors to drop the thing on the neat little square of concrete that marks off his very own backyard.  
  
 _ **Plink!**_  
  
Clyde wants to peel all of his skin off and run screaming from the building. The minutes tick by slowly and when last call finally rolls around it is an almost tangible sense of relief that washes over him. He spends the time until closing ushering patrons out the door and into cabs and cars as fast as he can. He wipes down tabletops and stools with singular purpose and tries desperately not to think about anything more than each task in front of him.  
  
The ancient crone who owns the joint tallies tabs and counts out the till for the night while he works. Finally she waves him over with a handsome roll of bills.  
  
"Take the day, sweet," she croaks and pats his cheek like he is a particularly obedient pet. "There's no ball game on tomorrow, won't hardly be anyone in."  
  
He thanks her and she shoos him off into the crisp night air.  
  
Clyde clutches his phone and strides toward his car, waving to stragglers and avoiding their attempts to draw him into conversation. He finally looks when he slides behind the wheel. Not _really_ looks, more so scrolls as fast as he can to make sure all is well. He cannot handle consuming all of what's there if he has any hope of not falling apart before he makes it home.

"Leaving now," he growls into the speaker and the words appear in the text box. He smashes the send button and chucks the phone into the passenger's seat while he peels out of the lot.  
  
 _ **Plinkplink!**_  
 _ **Plink!**_  
 _ **Plinkplinkplink!**_

Clyde drives white-knuckled across town. "I'm going, I'm going -- hold your _feckin' horses_ ," he spits through gritted teeth as the messages keep rolling in. The person on the other side is excited and impatient, eager to start playing this game that they've agreed to. Clyde is nervous in equal measure. He's not sure if it would be better or worse to have a body in the room. He entertains the idea of using that dumb face-call thing, to let them talk him through it. He flushes hot and sweats under his shirt, bumping over the curb when he cuts a turn far too close.

No, absolutely not, he thinks. He'd rather read a literal instruction manual.

The sound of the bright white gravel under his tires when he pulls onto his lot cuts through the stillness of the night. As if offended by his presence, the cicadas begin to rattle. It hums low and builds, raising the hair on the back of Clyde's neck. His neighbor waves as she bounces down the narrow step from her door. He glances at the clock on the radio before he cuts the engine, just about five in the morning. She'll be out for her run. She stops at the end of her lot and flips her headlamp on, waiting for him.  
  
"Clyde you got a delivery 'round back there. I was gonna take it in but I wasn't sure I'd catch yeh. You know those boys are up to no good again. It's big, you need help gettin' it inside?"  
  
"I've got it, thank you, ma'am." Clyde swallows thickly. No thank you, he thinks. _Please go away_ , it's a perfectly good morning for running.

She waves and she's off, her form swallowed by the velvety almost-darkness of the pre-dawn minutes

It's a job and half getting the stupid box in the door. It's large and ungainly like whoever packed it up was trying to punish him for his folly. At least the phone has quieted. He can focus on getting the damn thing inside. He stumbles in the dark, the narrow spaces inside a penance for his stature, a little bit of purgatory now in exchange for forgiveness for what he's done and what he plans to do.  
  
Clyde drops the box on the kitchen table and leans across the space to get the light. He scans the shipping label, nerves tight as a bowstring. Its mercifully nondescript. If anyone asks he can say he bought new work boots or something, found them cheap on Amazon.  
  
 _ **Plink!**_  
  
With a knife from the drainboard he cuts through the packing tape and rips the flaps open. The contents of the box are all efficiently crammed inside, a game of obscene Tetris paused with balloons of plastic. He tosses the receipt and the plastic aside, always better to just rip the band-aid right off.  
  
Clyde is surprised at how nice the boxes inside look. Nothing like the embarrassingly seedy plastic blister packs at the only shop for miles and miles. He picks up the phone and types, "Going to shower first." He locks the door and slides the chain in place. An afterthought, he brings the package with him into the back of the house. It's like company sitting there on the bed while he gets undressed.

The next text comes through just before he steps into the shower -- _**Quickly.**_

He stinks like the bar and that's no way to start -- cigarettes and stale beer and a day's worth of sweat, his hand smells faintly of the bleach wipes everything gets cleaned down with and the skin all chapped and sore. The shower feels nice. It takes the edge off of everything, drives the tension from his muscles and he can forget for a few minutes while the shoves a mountain of foam around in his hair that he's in for a long night -- morning?  
  
Clyde doesn't have to try to get hard, the relief of the shower is enough to make it happen. He can be harder, hotter, but the little rush is nice. He strokes it absently while he stands under the spray and soap runs down over his shoulders. It snakes around his body like the gentlest of pythons and pools like foam on a fancy coffee in the slow-moving water around his toes.  
  
He turns around in the cramped shower in the tiny efficiency bathroom to tilt his face into the spray. It's bordering of too-warm, which is perfect. He lifts his arms to scrub beneath them and stands still for several moments just wiggling his toes in the bubbly puddle.  
  
He thinks that maybe, it might be nice to have a head start. His stomach clenches with mortification at the thought of his absent partner on the other end of the text-thread waiting while he shoved nervous, clumsy fingers inside of himself in preparation.  
  
He takes a deep breath and harrumphs around his fingers, working his tongue and his cheeks to wet them with spit -- slicker than water and fine in a pinch, especially living with the nosiest roommate on God's green Earth long as he had.  
  
The first finger is always fairly easy. A little rub, some pressure -- relax and push in.  
  
It uncomfortable for just a minute, that intrusive kind of fullness and the first tingle warmth as his brain decides his cock doesn't need so much of that circulation.  
  
The second is always a bit more work. Clyde blushes at himself -- at his hazy reflection in the shiny strip of accent tile -- and puts his fingers back in his mouth. They need to be wetter, slicker. His hole needs a little reprieve.  
  
He presses his middle finger back inside and pushes down, waiting for everything to relax before the ring finger slides in, too.

The first watery light of the morning is creeping through the blinds of the bedroom window when Clyde returns. He sits beside the open box, regarding it like an awkward kind of bedmate. His half-dried hair clings to his neck and curls under his ears, tickling when he moves. He wonders if pictures might be requested of him -- if he should take the time to put his prosthetic back on -- he wonders if it would look... _cool?_ He shakes his head, he's just gotten clean and the last thing he wants to do is put that silicone sleeve back on his arm.

_**Plink!**_  
  
Clyde swears out loud, he's nearly forgotten there was another person involved in all of this. He imagines where they might be. They're travelling, he's not sure what time zone they've wound up in. Just for a moment he pictures them in an office -- a board room -- texting him all of these terrible... _terrible_ things.

_**Have you dashed you skull open?**_ the text reads.  
  
"No," Clyde says into the speaker. "I'm back. All yours."  
  
 _ **Promises, promises.**_  
  
"What first?"  
  
 _ **Right to business? Have a look. Figure it out.**_  
  
Clyde rolls his eyes and chucks the phone onto the bed rummages blindly. " _Ears?_ "

_**Didn't think you'd want to commit to a hood.**_  
  
"What exactly are we doing tonight?" This morning. _Good God_ , it's morning. He should have been in bed sleeping.  
  
 _ **Just look.**_

There's a bottle of lube that smells like coconut and taking that out frees the rest of it from the puzzle of the packing. The boxes are smooth in his hand as he pulls them out, glossy embossing of brand names and slightly three-dimensional pictures. He needs a damn knife to open them, so much stupid tape.

"Gimmie a minute," he snaps at the phone and scoots closer to the nightstand. There's a box cutter in there somewhere. Jimmy insisted he keep it close when he decided to give up his gun, as if he actually kept it there and not in the safe where it belonged.  
  
He flicks the blade open and makes quick work of each package, the little circular tabs of adhesive cutting cleanly. The actual boxes are harder, the smooth surfaces turning the lids into a vacuum seal. He finally shakes one furiously until the two sides slide apart.

"Well, fuck," he mutters, the most unassuming of the boxes falling open. He picks the phone back up and flicks the screen with his thumb. "You weren't joking."  
  
 _ **You said you were a good boy.**_  
  
"I..." He falters, looking at the thing in the box. The shiny black surface of it is almost more intimidating than what the thing actually is.

_**Are you still there?**_  
  
"Yes."  
  
 _ **Can I call? This would be easier if I could hear you.**_  
  
"I don't think I want to."  
  
 _ **Are you using voice to text?**_  
  
"Yeah."  
  
 _ **Well that explains things -- LOL -- please just let me call. I can talk you through it.**_ The phone is quiet for a moment. _**Well?**_  
  
Clyde mashes the screen with his thumb, pressing the call icon. It hardly rings once.  
  
"You _are_ a good boy," the low drawl over the speaker crackles like they're trying to keep quiet.  
  
"Where are you now?"  
  
"Not important."  
  
"I think this is all a bit silly."  
  
"Well, don't open anything then, you can return it."

Clyde presses his lips together, flattening his mouth into a pink line.

"Clyde?"  
  
"I'm thinking."  
  
"What if I said cauliflower?"  
  
He laughs, "You can't -- only a Logan can do that and you know it."  
  
"Worth a try... just like this is."  
  
"What if I... _what_ if -- " His heart is truly racing. He almost wishes someone would come over and demand his attention so he could shove everything under the bed and really forget about it. "Tell me what to do."  
  
"Good boy." The whisper twists in his gut and settles in his hips, everything south going pins-and-needles. "What did you open?"  
  
"The, um -- the -- well..."  
  
"Is it the tail?"  
  
"Yes," he croaks.  
  
"Which one?"  
  
"The hard one."  
  
"You have a choice, you know."  
  
Clyde frowns and scans the the things spread out on the bed. There's a larger white square, just a barcode and a sticker with a number and a name on it -- _Black Fox, Medium Bulb/Long Stem (Borosilicate)_ The thing inside is impossibly soft, the length of fur coiled neatly on top of the velvet covered molded plastic. The glass is crystal clear and it looks heavy -- feels it when he lifts the box.  
  
"Clyde, I can hear you mouth breathing even on speaker."  
  
"I'm thinking."  
  
"Use the hard one. Save the other for a special occasion."  
  
"Alright."  
  
"Well?" There's a heavy sigh, patient but creeping toward annoyed. "Clyde."  
  
"Should I put that... should I use that first?"  
  
"Sure." He can hear the satisfied smile over the airwaves. "Go ahead. Take your time, make it nice and wet first."  
  
The instructions fade into background static. He tears the plastic off the lube with his teeth and pops the cap. The scent is even stronger then. Not bad, but very present. He looks at the things on the bed and shifts, leaning down onto his elbow and getting comfortable. It's a bit startling how quickly his fingers slip into his hole coated in the slick, thick lubricant. He wiggles and spreads them, listening to the steady breathing over the phone.  
  
"Is the scent too strong? I wasn't sure if you'd like it."  
  
"It's fine," he says and closes his eyes.  
  
"Are you just going to finger yourself blind then?"  
  
They both laugh. His cock twitches against his thigh. It's such a nice laugh.  
  
"It's big," he reasons.  
  
"I know."

He has to sit up again to finagle with the thing -- _the tail_ \-- the plug. That's all it is, really, he thinks to himself. He's got one. Hidden in a Tupperware under the mattress. Not anywhere near this large. Or heavy. And it is, heavy, when he clenches the tail itself between his thighs and spreads more sunscreen-smelling nonsense over the bulb. He chews his lip, thinking about how it'll feel, how it'll balance. The silicone is bouncy and the shape of it, a soft kind of hook in a happy-wagging shape, seems designed to take advantage of it.  
  
"Clyde?"

"I'm doing it, I promise."  
  
"How about you get on your knees?"

Clyde laughs, sharp and loud. He holds onto the curved tail-shaped thing and slides off the bed.  
  
"Clyde? Are you doing it?"  
  
He situates himself on his knees and considers the implement in his fist. It'll actually be easier this way, he reasons, especially with no one to help. Just the voice on the phone.  
  
He gulps down air and realizes he's holding the damn thing wrong if he's going to do this. He fumbles, dropping it in his lap and getting lube absolutely everywhere -- on himself, on the bed, it's a miracle there's any left on the toy. With his face pressed to the edge of the bed he shifts it behind himself, pushing the bulb down into his cleft. He pretends his hand isn't his own, that it is up on the bed with his other arm, folded as if in nightly prayer.  
  
"Fuck," he swears out loud, the sound punching into the bedding.

" _Are you doing it?_ "  
  
"Ngk -- _yes_."

Its more difficult than fingers, more difficult than a smaller toy. But not impossible. Its a shock when it slides home, happening very suddenly -- his hole swallowing the damn thing entirely to the base when he gets the widest part against his rim. It takes some doing to get it settled, the base a narrow flare that fits _just-so_ against his body -- an anchor that slides nicely against his ass and curves gently down behind his balls. The weight of the tail, hooked garish and happy toward his spine, is a weird sort of counter balance to the full, hard weight inside of him.

"Are you alright? You're very quiet. Have you passed out?"  
  
"No," he whines, overwhelmed tears sticking his lashes together. _Oh_ , what he would give to just have them there with him. This was a terrible, awful idea.  
  
"Good. How to you feel?"  
  
"A lot. Very a lot."  
  
"Too much?"

"Almost."  
  
"You're such a good boy, Clyde. Have a rest, hm?" Clyde shifts, planting his elbow against the mattress to pull himself up. "Clyde?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Good boys don't get on the bed unless they're invited."  
  
He sinks back to his knees, carefully resting his backside against his heels. The curve of the tail touches his toes, pressing it in against his weight.

"There are some things in the box," the voice on the phone says, "that I wasn't quite sure about. I thought I'd give you the option, though."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Clyde croaks. "Like what?"  
  
"Is there a kind of velvet bag?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"In there, when you're ready."

When he sits up, his legs are shaking. Its a good shake, he thinks. He has to stop and take a breath, the tail shifting and pulling as the motion jostles the external weight. His knees pop and crack when he stands, his back twinges. He's too old for these games, he thinks. He holds the bag in the crook of his arm and works the drawstring open with his fingers and teeth. Its fairly big, kind of heavy for something so amorphous. He upends the bag and shakes it out. A pile of leather straps and buckles hit the bedding and the earthy scent of it smacks him in the face.  
  
Its fully daylight outside if the brightness trying to slip in through the slats of the blinds is to be believed. His stomach rumbles in want of breakfast. He ignores it and untangles the mess.  
  
There are -- _good gracious_ \-- cuffs, four of them. _Mercy_ , there's a leash and a collar -- very wide and solid. Clyde thinks the last bit is supposed to go around his chest. It reminds him of what the dogs at the hospital wore only... oh, fuck, sexy? _Somehow?_  
  
"Clyde you're very quiet again. Do you like it? Please don't feel like you've got to say yes."  
  
"I'm not sure."  
  
"That's okay. Would you like to try any of it?"  
  
"Not the cuffs, I don't think. I feel a bit funny."  
  
"That's fine."  
  
"If you... if you give me a minute. To figure out the buckles. Just a minute."  
  
The breathing on the line is heavy and steady. "Take all the time you need."

"You know," Clyde says to distract himself. "There's lots more here."  
  
"Mm, for another time. Or you can just use it. It's all yours."

He decides to be pragmatic about this -- it's gear. He wore gear of some kind every day for years. Buckles and straps and heavy plates of Kevlar and ceramic. Leather, metal, plastic, canvas. It's just gear.  
  
The harness is mercifully simple -- a buckle in the center that looks mostly decorative in the middle of the chest band and snap buttons that hold the shoulder straps closed around a set of O-rings. He unsnaps the left and slides his right arm though it's strap. He fumbles for a moment, catching the strap under his arm before it falls and finally snapping it closed. He rolls his shoulders and lets all of his breath out in a heavy huff.  
  
"What did you put on?"  
  
"The harness."  
  
"How does it feel?"  
  
"Not like much. Comfortable."  
  
"Good. Would you like to put anything else on?"  
  
"Mmhm," his voice cracks like his balls have only just dropped and he hesitates, shifting from one foot to the other -- which is an _awful_ idea, really, because it makes the tail bounce and sway and the shock that it sends straight to the most base parts of his brain when the little arm of the base pushes in against the space just past his stretched hole is really remarkable.  
  
With shaky hands, Clyde picks up the collar. Its thick and wide and heavy and it occurs to him not for the first time, and probably not the last, that he has lost his damn mind and every last bit of sense with it.  
  
He's not sure if it's a happy accident or a purposeful choice, but the collar has snaps to close as well. He situates it at his throat and holds it steady with his arm so he can reach around to secure it.  
  
Almost as an afterthought, really without a thought at all, he picks up the leash and clips it in place on the heavy ring protruding from the front of the collar. He tugs on it, adjusting everything around his neck and pulling his hair out where it's gotten stuck.  
  
"Clyde," the voice on the phone is barely a whisper. "Did you -- did you do what I think you did?"  
  
"Very likely," Clyde answers. It's funny, he thinks. It sounds like they're enjoying all of this, even though they can't see or do it themselves. They haven't asked him to send any pictures, which he's thankful for. For a moment the idea seemed naughty and exciting but not he's not sure he wants to be immortalized in pixels and data this way.  
  
Clyde picks up the phone, frowning at the call timer. The little photo icon makes him blush -- the sunny smile and bright eyes. "Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
"At home. In bed."  
  
"What're you wearin'?"

They laugh. Its sounds full-bellied and genuine. "What would you want me to be wearing? Ridiculous underwear? Absolutely nothing?"  
  
Clyde shrugs and then remembers he's alone. "Whatever you really got on."  
  
"Wooly socks. Sweatpants -- they've seen better days, if that helps paint a picture. And a tee shirt." There's a sound like they're cringing, sucking air though their teeth. "My hair's a mess, I haven't showered. But I did brush my teeth before I called. Felt appropriate, who knows why!"  
  
Clyde laughs with them, and realizes how tense he was only when he finally stops clenching his jaw. "I put the collar on," he says matter-of-fact. "And the leash. Felt right, who knows why."  
  
"Oh, Clyde," they breathe. "You really are _such_ a good boy."  
  
His whole face feels red and hot. He doesn't dare glance at the little mirror over the dresser. He can see the flush has raced down over his chest. It creeps toward his belly button. It makes his ears burn.  
  
It makes his cock sway as it fills.

"Good boys get to play, don't they?"

Clyde swallows, their tone has turned so very dark and serious. He waits for whatever is coming next.

"Does my good boy want to know the game?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You have to do one more thing first."  
  
"Do I?"  
  
"Put the ears on."

Clyde feels completely ridiculous. Ears. _Ears!_ He's already _got_ ears and he doesn't need a second pair. He can get satellite radio as it is, doesn't need it in HD. He figures, as he smooths his hair behind _his_ ears, mostly dry now, that they can't see him -- they won't know if he doesn't put the foolish accessory on. He just has to say he has.  
  
"I'm waiting."  
  
He slips the headband in place.  
  
Ears.  
  
And a tail.  
  
A harness -- a collar -- a leash.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
"They're on."  
  
"Oh, you're the _best_ boy, Clyde."  
  
His stomach clenches. His cock twitches up to full mast.

"Now, down, boy."  
  
Clyde sinks to his knees and lurches forward onto his hand without a thought. It feels natural.  
  
"Clyde, bring me with you."  
  
Pulled out of it for a moment, he reaches up to grab the phone and places it carefully on the floor in front of himself.  
  
"Good boy."

He imagines a pair of feet before him, and long legs climbing up and up.  
  
"Now, _down_. Put your nose on the floor."  
  
Not quite nose-to-floor, Clyde lowers himself so that his cheek rests comfortably on his arm. Beneath himself, he wraps the handle of the leash around wrist. The firm hold is grounding. _Good._  
  
The tail sways, pressing up against all the best bits but never long enough to really get going.  
  
"Such a good, _good_ boy." There's a short pause, like some decision is being mulled over. "Show me how good you are -- how _happy_ you are to get to play."

"Oh, God," he groans.  
  
"C'mon, who's my good boy?"  
  
Clyde wiggles his hips.  
  
And wags his tail.

He feels completely ridiculous for a moment before the delicious tug-and-pull of the weight of the tail overwhelms any other thought he can muster. The weight and the bulk of the bulb-end of the plug is _so much_. He's so full of it, he can't really believe there's room inside of himself for so much to be happening. His hole is getting tired. He's not afraid the tail will fall out but he's upset for a moment that the sensation has changed. He clenches desperately around the stem and jerks his hips, wagging.

His breath is coming in short gasps and snorts and, _oh no_ , he sounds like -- he puts the thought from his head and pulls a little harder on the leash.

Fuck? Fuck.

His thighs shake, the muscles twitching with the effort it's taking to hold himself up this way. He curses his laziness, he should have taken that flier for yoga at the civic center more seriously.

The base presses into the space behind his balls and it's shocking each time, over and over again as the tail wiggles and bounces. The tip of it keeps poking him in the back, like an over excited retriever smacking itself with it's tail in delight.

Oh no, he needs to concentrate. He needs to think of absolutely anything else.

Sounds like talking keep coming from the phone but he can't really make sense of any of them. He thinks he might explode. Shatter into millions of tiny little gooey pieces. He's so sweaty now, what was the point of showering? His knees slip on the laminate floor and his forearm skids as he stops himself from falling.

"Ahh- _ahh_ ," he groans. "Can I -- should I? Touch -- touch myself. Oh, _fuck_. Fuck. _Oh._ "

"Of course, Clyde. Such good, _obedient_ boys get to touch themselves."

Their teeth are gritted hard, Clyde can tell. They gasp right into the speaker and he knows that... _fuckshitshit._ He has to push his forehead against the floor and plant his elbow to hold himself up. He untwists his wrist from the leash and reaches back -- first between his legs and then he barks a laugh and has a different idea.

Clyde reaches behind himself and holds on to the curve of the tail. He tugs it as he clenches, sharp and fast, until his toes go just a little bit numb and his shoulder is too sore to keep going. He moans out loud and lets go of the tail, shifting his hand between his legs. His cock is _warm_ he's so damned hard. It nearly hurts to stroke it. He comes in a rush that feels like someone has pulled a thread through his body that was anchored on the inside of his skull.

There is nothing but breathing. Wheezing and heaving. Labored and spent. The phone crackles like it does when he's talking to someone standing outside on a windy day. Like feedback over a radio.

"Are you alright?" A tiny, strained voice asks.

"I think so," Clyde croaks into the floor. His knees are screaming and his back throbs.

"You're such a good boy," they whisper. "My good boy."

His body pulses again from the top of his head to the tips of his toes even though he's sure he has nothing left to offer.

"You deserve a nice nap."

"Do I, now?" He coughs and gingerly heaves himself over onto his side. "Am I allowed on the bed?"

"Oh yes, yes you are. You've earned it."

***

Mellie wallops Jimmy's shoulder in protest, the pair of them sitting at the counter in the only greasy-spoon dive in town. The warm smell of coffee and buttered toast fills the small space as the waitress scoots by behind them with a tray full of food.

"You leave him alone," she warns. "Don't you _dare_ go over there."

"And why not? Can't I go see my only, darling brother? My favorite sibling?"

"Don't you _dare_."

Jimmy sips his coffee and waggles his brow over the edge of the mug. Mellie gives him a look that would have reduced him to tears if he were a lesser man. "Oh, _fine_. Spoil sport."

She pats his head, tapping the rim of his cap down against his ears. "Good boy. Now eat your damn eggs."

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments pls reward me I've been a good girl.


End file.
